


Le Ciel Pardonne

by paint_me_a_revolution



Category: 1789 - バスティーユの恋人たち | 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Toho, 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Various Composers/Attia & Chouquet
Genre: Angst, Execution, Ghosts, Graphic Description of Injury, Injury, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-26 05:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16675375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paint_me_a_revolution/pseuds/paint_me_a_revolution
Summary: Executions are unsightly procedures.





	Le Ciel Pardonne

      They can only watch in horror as Maximilien is dragged to the guillotine. “They’ve shot him,” Ronan whispers, clutching Camille’s hand so tightly his fingers ache. “Look, Camille. They’ve shot him.”

      Camille can see for himself. Maxime’s face is bandaged and his hair is matted with sweat and dried blood. From here, Camille can hear his cries of pain, can see the paths his tears have cut through the blood and grime on his cheeks. “I know,” he whispers. “I see.” He watches, horrified, as Maxime is thrown to his knees with such force that it nearly topples him. He looks into the crowd with large, sunken eyes, imploring, afraid. Next to Camille, Ronan gasps, rocks onto his toes as though he might catch Maxime’s attention. Impossible.

      “It will be over soon.” That’s Danton, standing a little to the side. He rests a hand on Ronan’s shoulder. “You don’t have to stay. Either of you.”

      There’s a scream from the platform, a sound of unbridled agony that draws Camille’s eyes back to the horrific scene. The executioner holds a bloody bandage in his hand, and fresh blood pours from Maxime’s ruined jaw. It’s a terrible thing, seeing him like this. His mouth hangs open, and blood bubbles from the wound on both sides, a sight that makes Camille’s stomach churn. He’s sobbing anew; they’ve unbound his hands, but he simply cradles the side of his face as though he might close up the terrible wound. Maxime, the man Camille swore would fight his own shadow if he could, has no fight left in him. Someone in the crowd hands him a handkerchief, which he takes with trembling fingers.

      “Merci, monsieur.” It’s barely a whisper, nothing like the rich, warm voice Camille remembers so dearly. The handkerchief is barely stained red before the guards tear it out of Maxime’s hands and the executioner shoves him down. They strap him in place with unwarranted roughness. The blade tumbles down, and Maxime’s head with it. In a heartbeat, it’s over.

**Author's Note:**

> Robespierre's execution kind of breaks my heart, so I figured I might as well break other people's hearts, too. I hope you enjoy!


End file.
